The Earl's Wagered Bride: Christmas Belles, Book 1 Page 2

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Bee said and surprised her with her acceptance. “Take Mary with you. Delphine and I will wait here.”

  Del must’ve overheard Bee’s offer to have their lady’s maid go with her. Even though she had been talking with the modiste about a bolt of ice blue satin, she turned toward them and said, “The gypsy again?”

  Marjorie snapped taller, affronted. “I like Desmerata and her sister. They’ve been...amusing.”

  “Pinning your hopes to what they tell you is not amusing, my dear,” Bee insisted.

  Marjorie frowned at her. Bee put her own stock in vain hopes trying to help the revenuers catch a gang of smugglers she’d spied on the beach one morning. “I’m not. I wouldn’t.”

  “Not useful, either,” Del piped in as she rubbed the length of ivory Chantilly lace between her thumb and forefinger. “They won’t help you catch a man.”

  Marjorie didn’t want a man. Not any man, to be precise. “I leave that to you, little sister.”

  “Then why do you go?” Del teased with a merry wink of her clear blue eyes.

  Oh, Delphine had to end this concentration of hers on men. She flirted with each one she deemed young enough, rich enough, tall enough to interest her. With sugary smiles and feminine coos, she’d draw them close enough to inspire them to propose. Then as if scalded, she’d refuse them. Their aunt grew weary of Del’s chase—and warned of coming catastrophe if she did not stop.

  “I told you why.” Marjorie pretended to be intrigued by a display of vibrant colored velvets racked up against the wall. “I’m amused. Life can be—” Limiting. Confining. “Boring.”

  “Once the guests begin to arrive tomorrow,” Del said, “you’ll be stimulated.”

  “Exactly!” she rejoined with a grin. “I’m off. Ten minutes at most. Quick to return! Mary!” She hailed the maid who’d accompanied them on this trip into town.

  “You’ll gain what you desire, but not the way you choose.”

  Marjorie Craymore folded her arms, a shiver of apprehension skipping up her spine at the old gypsy new prediction. She stared at her. “The last time I visited, Desmerata, you read my cards and said you saw ‘wealth and laughter’. What happened to that?”

  The wizened woman’s twin sister, Deserita, cackled. Her dark face crinkled in mirth as she waggled her bony fingers at Marjorie. “Give me your hand, girl. I will show you what it says.”

  Marjorie rolled a shoulder in resignation. She’d do anything to gain assurance that she could carry out her plan for her aunt’s Christmas house party. “Here.”

  The lady ran a fingertip down the center of her palm and over the heel. “See there. This line...and this. It is as I said. Wealth. Laughter.”

  “But the cards no longer say ‘riches’. Why not? I need money. Not this...this vague allusion to what I desire.” Yes, she was angry. “Are you toying with me, Deserita? You’ve no need. Haven’t I always come back to hear your read of me? Heaven knows, I’ve paid you well before.”

  “Now, now, girl.” Deserita stroked the back of Marjorie’s hand and regarded her with a benign toothless smile. “Not to fret. I take your good coin.”

  “That I earn with your help. Well, perhaps not at the tables, but you encourage me. And I continue.”

  “And you should. You are good at the cards. But you must take heed of me. Danger comes.”

  Marjorie snatched back her hand. Despairing that these women who’d been her good counselors for these past two years would turn on her, she wanted to cry. Run. But she never did either. Ever.

  She stood instead. Wrapped her new green wool pelisse tightly around her and frowned at the woman.

  “You must not show your fear to me or anyone, Miss. It does no good. Pulls you down. You must be high, proud. Or what you plan will not work.”

  “You don’t know what I plan.”

  The Romany had a black magnetic pull to her gaze. “But I do.”

  Marjorie snatched up her reticule, dug for the exorbitant pound note payment and slid it across the table to the woman. Tears clogged her throat as she spun for the door to the rickety hut.

  “Young Miss!” the old palm reader called to her in that eerie voice of the Otherworld. The sound could stop a stag in his tracks. It halted Marjorie, head up, flinching at the woman’s unnatural screech. “There is a man who will stop you and he can hurt you.”

  Marjorie pulled on her gloves as she faced the woman. In the dim light of late afternoon, the gypsy was more ghost than nemesis. All blood reds and winter greens, her gown and shawl concealed what Marjorie knew must be her skeletal figure. The woman barely existed on this earth. But her predictions, her readings of Marjorie’s successes and failures, had always been timely, accurate and positive. This was the first that boded ill.

  And Marjorie did not like it. Would not believe it.

  “Why would my prospects change in a matter of days?”

  “Because one man intends to change them. You cannot control others, Young Miss. You must adapt. Learn. Change yourself.”

  “Yes, well, fine words.” She tugged on her other glove and pulled so hard, her finger broke the stitches. Well, she’d buy a new pair with her winnings. She’d buy ten new pairs. New ones for her sisters, too. “Thank you for this afternoon. I doubt you will see me again.”

  “I saw one more line in your palm.”

  Marjorie lifted a hand to quiet her. “I do not wish to—”

  “I have never told you of him.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “This one will not hurt you. Nor will his two friends. Both bring more joy than you know.”

  “I see. Mysteries. All. Good day to you both.”

  “And Happy Christmas to you, Young Miss.”

  “I would say the same to you, but I know you do not believe in Christmas,” she said, her fingers going to the handle. Sad and angry at herself at how she was leaving two women who’d been kind to her, she turned back. “I do wish you joy of the season.”

  “Thank you. We are happy and we shall be well,” said the fortuneteller. “So will you if you are not proud, but instead wise.”

  “Riddles.” She blew a gust of air in frustration. “You use them too often.”

  Both old women grinned.

  “You’ve untangled them. Often,” said one.

  “Do it again,” said the other.

  Chapter 3

  December 21, 1815

  Marsden Hall

  Brighton, England

  Marjorie fiddled with the Valenciennes lace trim adorning her bodice. An abnormal apoplexy seized her heart rate, driving it to racing speed. The Red Salon of her Aunt Gertrude’s home was brilliant with the Christmas decor, candles ablaze, the fragrance of pine boughs inspiring joy of the season. But Marjorie couldn’t enjoy them.

  She breathed deeply and had no idea how to calm her nerves. With great glee usually, she could cut a deck for a card game as deftly as she skinned a rabbit for Cook. Proud of her sang froid, she could deal or roll dice with a steady hand and a tilt of her chin.

  But tonight?

  She gulped. Tonight was different. During these next seven days, she would have the opportunity to sit down and play cards with eight of their twenty-six house guests. Eight of them were very rich. She planned to have all or most of her winnings by Christmas Eve. A present to myself and my sisters.

  She grinned. But in case she hadn’t made her goal, she planned a special card party during the Christmas night ball. From those hundred or more guests, in their cups to celebrate the season, she’d definitely win enough to make her life sublime. Her winnings could fund her purchase of the one thing in all the world she wanted for Christmas. One lovely tall, handsome gift.

  But the gypsies’ predictions ate at her—and she shivered. I’ll get what I want but not how I wish? And who were these friends they spoke of?

  Oh, why couldn’t she shake the notion she might fail at her plan?

  Which is silly. Really quite silly. Because I’ve
done this before. And no one saw my intent. Except Bee. And perhaps Aunt Gertrude.

  That lady who stood beside her chatting with Del about her gown and the supper menu, was atwitter with delight at her house party. Roly-poly and silver-haired, the late third earl of Marsden’s countess was their mother’s younger sister. An actress for only a brief moment years ago in London, she’d been discovered on the boards by the earl. Recently aggrieved by his first wife’s passing, the man had loved her on sight. For who could not adore a whimsical wit, such as she? They’d wed and scandalized the ton for the earl’s urgency to marry. But all was soon forgiven, for the lady was a welcome addition to society. Nor did she show physical signs of having allowed the earl pre-marital liberties. In fact, no child was ever conceived by the couple—and the gossipmongers were without purchase. Instead the earl and his second countess lived quite happily ever after, doting on the earl’s only child by his deceased wife, his son, Griffith.

  “Where is Belinda?” their aunt asked them both, a flutter of her fan to the diamonds at her throat. “She’s late. We must welcome them all. If we don’t open the salon doors soon to receive them, you know that Simms will scold us.”

  Del chuckled.

  Marjorie tried.

  Their butler, Simms, new at his position, was an odd duck. Rather young for a butler, he was also terribly good looking. Exquisite sartorially, he was exacting in his duties, his etiquette and friendships. He claimed to know many of his peers in service to the ton of Brighton, a great benefit to their aunt who loved the morsels of gossip that he might impart. Indeed, one of his best friends was head butler to His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. And so, Marsden Hall in Simms’s capable hands ran to the minute of punctuality and fashionable declarations.

  A side door to the salon opened and Bee gasped at the beauty of the room aglow with dozens of candelabra and Christmas finery.

  “There you are, my Belinda.” Their aunt sailed forth in a cloud of smoky satin and her diamonds to match. “Come stand here, beside me. There. Marjorie next, then Delphine.”

  They took their places in their aunt’s receiving line.

  Belinda gave a wan smile, not happy to be at this house party. Marjorie thrilled to the prospects her gambling presented. But Del was giddy at the idea of this event, eager to enchant any man in her path.

  “I like your gown.” Marjorie complimented Belinda on the silver lama and white lace. Her sister had suffered deeply since the battle of Waterloo in June when the one man she’d always wished to marry and never could, had gone missing, presumed dead. Belinda’s heart was not in this house party as it was their aunt’s stated purpose to find them each a husband. To establish their independence from their aunt’s charity and to gain for herself and her siblings income, Bee had recently applied at a registry in town for a governess position. She could not let Bee sacrifice herself that way. By heavens, they were the daughters of a viscount, albeit a man who had drunk and gambled away his fortune and their dowries. As if she were afflicted with a case of hives, Marjorie felt the urgency of her own quest. And her need for money.

  “Thank you,” Bee said, trying to smile. Despite the fact that Marjorie had honey blonde hair and Bee’s was nearly black, they could wear many of the same colors. Because their height and figures were also the same, Marjorie would look wonderful in Bee’s gown. “You may borrow it, if you like. But I like you in the salmon.”

  “We can exchange.”

  Del rocked forward on her toes, all eagerness. In ivory tulle and midnight blue satin, she looked like a princess. “I think tonight will be a marvelous success, don’t you? I cannot thank you enough, Aunt, for all your kindnesses.”

  Gertrude examined her with knowing eyes and Marjorie could have sworn the lady was baiting a hook for Del. “Set your sights on any one young buck yet, my chick?”

  “Soon, Aunt. I read your invitation list over and over again.” She rattled on about assessing the men’s characters as opposed to their lofty titles. But then she turned her concerns on their oldest sister. “And you, Bee? Will you set yourself to a happy evening?”

  “I will.”

  “Aunt has decided we are to sit as Prinny does in his dining room in the Pavilion,” Marjorie announced with humor.

  “A woman beside a man and so on,” said Delphine with a sparkle in her blue eyes. “We change our attentions at each remove.”

  Del nodded at that arrangement, the more men to enchant.

  Bee shot her a knowing look, then asked, “When did you change the seating, Aunt?”

  “An hour ago. Simms did it in a thrice!” She snapped her fingers.

  “The footmen,” added Marjorie, “did a fine job. I inspected the table.”

  “Been at work, have you, Marjorie,” asked Bee, “match-making?”

  “The assignments seemed superb for tonight,” she assured her, the sticks of her Chinese fan to Bee’s white glove. Marjorie had rearranged only one place-setting. She put herself beside the man whose money she wished to win tonight. “We’ll change seatings throughout the week.”

  “Oh? That sounds dubious. Who am I to sit beside tonight?”

  “On your left, Belinda,” said their aunt, “is Lord Carlson. I put him next to you.”

  Bee stared at her aunt. Unhappy Bee. No wonder. The man was a widower. Older than Bee by at least a decade, he was a politician. Typical for that species, he loved to talk. On and on. “And on my other side?”

  “Lord Hallerton. Recently home from the Continent.”

  Another bore. But wealthy. The fourth Viscount Hallerton was an authority on shipping and commerce, rich from his family’s sea trade to the Americas and now the newly opened ports of France. Marjorie had her sights on him for tomorrow night.

  “You mustn’t worry, Bee,” Marjorie said. She’d researched the background of each guest in London’s and Brighton’s newspapers and with her very socially prominent friend, Lady Elizabeth Kent. “Hallerton is not in the marriage game.”

  “To choose a man,” gushed Aunt Gertrude, “we have days and days, for you girls.”

  “And Aunt has invited a bevy of eligible ones,” said Del, bubbly with the prospects.

  “Yes, it’s Christmas, my chicks, so let us begin. I say, Simms,” Gertrude hailed the butler, as he entered through the private hall. Stiff as a statue in his formal navy livery with woven gold passementerie down his chest, he appeared even more officious than usual. “We should open the doors.”

  “As you wish, ma’am.” He strode to the far set of double doors that led to the foyer and set them wide. Guests murmured and milled about, dressed to their chins in their silks and satins, their diamonds and medals. Knowing their rank by heart, they formed a small receiving line in precedence and filed into the salon with yuletide greetings. Aunt Gertrude took the courtesies and bows with aplomb, then she passed that guest on to Bee. Marjorie and Delphine came next and all the guests came through with grace. The footmen arrived with their champagne and sherry. Simms supervised in silence, then drifted away like a phantom to his lair.

  As the chatter rose to a pitch, Simms re-appeared at the doors. The corner of his left cheek twitched in that odd way he had of suppressing a grin. The man really should learn how to giggle, somewhere sometime soon. But he turned aside to fully reveal the magnificent forms of three late arrivals.

  Aunt Gertrude caught his eye. At once she shot to her feet, then froze, one hand to her bosom. “Dear heavens.”

  Everyone turned to view the three men who stood upon the threshold.

  “Happy Christmas, Mama,” said Griffith Harlinger, the earl of Marsden.

  Marjorie sank like a stone to a chair. She’d not seen him in nearly two years. He looked marvelous. Healthy. Very. Healthy. His shoulders as broad as she remembered from the last time she’d curved against him. His arms intact, strong in his formal Horse Guards blue uniform. His legs, long, muscular. His hair, soft brown mussed by the removal of his helmet and the winter winds. His face, alive with happiness
to be home. His eyes, so blue, so piercing Marjorie had always known they could see right through her.

  He opened his arms to his step-mother and with a cry, she rushed in.

  One man wore the uniform of the Coldstream Guards and an anxious smile. A stranger to Marjorie, he had curly auburn hair and soft grey eyes. He scanned the crowd until he paused on Delphine. He greeted Aunt Gertrude and received her welcome, but quickly made his way toward Del with the help of a cane. Her young sister locked eyes with this man and Marjorie marveled at Del’s reaction. Could this be the mysterious, much-lauded, much-ridiculed Lord Bromley, Neville Vaughn, the man who had proposed and then jilted Del because she had no dowry?

  Beside Bromley stood a man whom they’d all thought lost to this world. His welcome face brought a gasp to Marjorie’s lips and a hymn to her heart. He seemed a shadow of his former self. He was gaunt, his shoulders sloped, his left arm tight to his chest in a sling and a raw slash upon one cheek. But well-shaven, crisply attired in the latest formal fashion, he smiled at Bee with a question in his tender dark brown eyes.

  Marjorie put a hand to her chest. She could not utter a word, but she was not the only one, for Bee was spellbound by him.

  He smiled at her older sister.

  And Marjorie grinned.

  This was indeed Alastair Demerest, their life-long childhood friend and neighbor. The second son of Viscount Lowell, Alastair had inherited the title and lands upon the death of his older brother William, felled at Toulouse in April 1814. Though he did not wear his uniform tonight, Alastair had gone to war when a lad in the cavalry. Days after Waterloo, he was listed at first as wounded, then as missing. The entire family feared he was forever gone from them. How he was here was so much a miracle that Marjorie gasped with her sisters and aunt.

  Alastair strode toward her sister. He took Bee’s hands, his gaze darting over her features in nervous flicks. “Am I so changed, dear Bee?”

  Marjorie turned to meet the bright blue gaze of Griff who blinked and clasped his step-mother to his side.